


hard rain, honey, and the sweet sun

by Allegria23



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, During a quarantine but not a serious one, Frottage, Lots of kissing, M/M, Married Characters, Oral Sex, Porn Without Plot, Shower Sex, Stuck in the Apartment Sex, folks this is just a lot of very explicit smut, maybe a tiny bit of banter... as a treat, mid-sex nerding-out, smut with feelings, yes they are wildly in love of course they are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23407756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allegria23/pseuds/Allegria23
Summary: Eliot and Quentin are staying in their apartment. They both have some ideas.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 45
Kudos: 170
Collections: Lock Down Fest, Quentin Coldwater's Birthday Smutfest 2020





	hard rain, honey, and the sweet sun

**Author's Note:**

> Friends, I'm not sure this qualifies as a story, in the literary sense. I was listening to "No Plan" and imagined what Q and El would get up to during a quarantine, (a highly recommended activity, by the way,) and here we are. 
> 
> This _technically_ could be part of the "second time around" series-- it's set in the apartment that the guys live in in the third part of "your body (your heart) in his hands" and all of "this is a quiet creation"-- but I haven't added it to the series yet because I feel awkward about it. It really is... exactly what it says in the tags.

Eliot taps the ash from his cigarette into the green glass ashtray hidden in the soil of one of the oversized potted plants on the roof of their West Harlem apartment building. He rolls his head slowly to look at Quentin, who is slumped in an adirondack chair that nearly swallows him and wrapped in a heavy blanket over his cardigan. Eliot had the foresight to put on his peacoat before coming up here to smoke, but Quentin is a “drag a blanket with him up the stairs” kind of guy.

“Remind me why we can’t just fuck off to Fillory?” he asks, lazy. “Hmmm?”

Quentin shoots Eliot a long-suffering-but-amused look.“We could infect a world without modern medicine with a novel and potentially dangerous flu?” 

Well, yes. Eliot knew this. But, in for a penny. 

“ _Or_ ,” he begins, “just, aside from how we’re both _fine,_ we could ensconce ourselves in our rooms in the castle and let the palace staff run us endless hot baths and bring us soup.”

“Mhmm,” Quentin replies, taking Eliot’s free hand and twining their fingers on the chair’s arm while he props his feet up on another chair, “that does sound tempting.” 

Eliot takes a drag of his cigarette and smooths his thumb along the back of Quentin’s hand, just enjoying the shape of his bones, while a car alarm goes off somewhere in the distance and a sparrow startles off the retaining wall that edges the building. He waits patiently for the “but.”

“But,” Quentin says, right on time, “Margo is an aggressive cuddler, and Fen is a hugger.”

Well, fuck. Q is looking at him, reading the realization on his traitorous face.

“A quarantined Margo would be a very, very angry-with-us Margo,” Eliot admits. Far better, really, not to risk her wrath. Not that Eliot would; the people of Fillory are _actually_ more important than his desire for royal pampering. He just wanted to whine about it a little. “Plus, ‘the silkworm flu’ sounds ludicrous, and we know how she feels about whimsy.”

“Sorry, Love,” Quentin says, sounding like he actually kind of is. “You’re stuck with me and Postmates.”

“No one I’d rather share a voluntary quarantine with,” Eliot reassures him, because Quentin should _never_ feel bad about being Eliot’s company, “and New York does have a great deal of soup to offer, after all.”

Quentin smiles at him, sweet. He leans in and tips his chin up, so naturally Eliot kisses him. Of course. He’ll kiss him as much as he likes, for as long as he wants. Quentin loves to be kissed, and Eliot loves _him,_ and this is just always going to be a good idea.

Plus it’s, you know, _wonderful._

Eliot enjoys the soft, lovely heat of Quentin’s mouth for so long that his cigarette has burned down to ash and gone out by the time Q pulls back and says, “sorry about the no Fillorian baths thing, though.” 

“S’okay,” Eliot murmurs, a little dazed.

Quentin twinkles up at him, all dimples. “Maybe I could make it up to you with a long, hot shower?” 

“Tell me you mean now.”

“Uh yeah, I mean now,” Quentin says, and kisses him again before standing up and turning to take Eliot’s hands, his blanket falling to the rooftop concrete around his ankles. Eliot stoops to pick it up for him, and lets his cute, eager, hot little husband lead him back down the stairs.

.o.o.O.o.o.

Ten minutes and two sets of mostly telekinetically removed clothing later and they are, delightfully, in the shower.

Quentin likes his showers very, very hot. Thick steam quickly fills up their corner shower enclosure and roils out over the glass walls and door as Eliot watches from the little built-in tile bench while Quentin gets wet under the spray. 

The shower head is so high up above him—situated to accommodate Eliot’s height—that it looks like he’s standing under a waterfall, or in a heavy, hot rain. Quentin lifts his arms and threads his fingers into his hair against his head, tilts his head back under the spray and the hot water runs in streams over his face and down his neck and chest. 

It’s so sexy. Quentin’s biceps and his chest, his broad shoulders, his square jaw, wet through the steam… he looks amazing. Eliot knows that there’s effort, here, too: it isn’t easy for Quentin to be just looked at, unironically wanted and admired. The way that Q, naturally shy and skeptical of his own appeal, is making an effort to put himself on display _…_ well, it’s beyond just hot. Eliot feels honored. 

“You’re gorgeous, Q,” he says, and the corners of Quentin’s mouth quirk up. One wouldn’t think that someone could blush when already standing under nearly-scalding water, but Quentin’s blushing powers are advanced. He steps forward out of the spray and turns around, adjusting the temperature down to something less insane for Eliot’s much more sensitive skin, and his shoulders and back and the top of his cute ass are red from the heat. Eliot stands and it’s only a step to drape himself over Quentin’s back, wrap his arms around his chest and kiss his temple, feel the heat radiating off of his skin all along his body.

Quentin relaxes into him and drops his head back onto Eliot’s shoulder as Eliot spins them slowly around, putting himself under the spray. The hot water feels good, but not as good as Q, and it’s a shame that Eliot has to take a hand off of him to brush his own dripping curls out of his eyes.

“Want me to wash your hair?” he asks, low in Q’s ear. 

“Yeah,” Quentin shudders against him, “that’d be nice.”

The shampoo he selects is one that he orders especially for Q. Eliot works it gently into a lather against Quentin’s scalp while Q hums and leans his head back into Eliot’s hands. It had taken a few tries to find a scent that Quentin liked this much, and that Eliot liked so much _on him—_ woody, but not the astringent scent of evergreen; warm and comforting. This scent is mostly rosewood, rich and rare, said to lift the spirits. Eliot moves his lather-covered hands to Quentin’s chest and feels him up shamelessly while shampooing his chest hair. A few more minutes to properly condition, and he’s rinsing Quentin off in the spray and appreciating the way the running water falls over the planes of his body, masculine and compact.

Quentin sounds happy and relaxed, maybe even a little high, when he asks, “Do you want me to do yours?” 

Eliot hates to turn that down, but his curls really should go a couple more days. “Not this time, baby… but, would you wash my back?”

The body wash is silky and nice, smelling like a well-curated version of a meadow, and Eliot _loves_ the feeling of Quentin’s hands on his back. He braces a hand flat against the slate-grey tile wall and lets out an only-slightly-dramatic moan when Quentin begins to massage his shoulders and neck. His hands are so _strong…_ and then before he knows it, Q has soaped him down to his feet, pressed up against his back, and then ducked under his arm and is facing him, back to the shower wall and arms coming around Eliot’s waist.

“Oh hello there,” Eliot murmurs, delighted, as he suddenly has his arms full of warm, soapy Q. Quentin smiles cleverly up at him, and Eliot grips around his back and pulls him up on his toes as he leans down to kiss his smiling lips. Quentin lets out a surprised squeak at being lifted, but it quickly turns into an enthusiastic groan as he leans in and practically _pushes_ himself right up against Eliot’s body, sliding a hand into his wet hair and kissing him like he’s been waiting forever to do just this.

Suddenly inspired, Eliot gets both arms around Q and, with the slightest telekinetic nudge, lifts him right off the shower floor and up against the wall, pinning him with the press of his own body. 

“Oh my god, Eliot!” Quentin gasps, breaking the kiss.

“Problem?” Eliot laughs. He knows this man _very well._ “Too much manhandling for you, Coldwater?” He leans in and sucks, hard, at Quentin’s neck beneath his jaw. 

“That’s… not. Nope,” Quentin pants. He digs a hand into Eliot’s shoulder and presses the other up into his hair as Eliot continues to kiss his neck, licking a long line under Quentin’s jaw and gently tugging his earlobe with his teeth. Quentin squirms against him, all slippery, soapy hotness, then finally hooks one leg over Eliot’s hip and curls the other around his thigh. 

Eliot can feel Quentin’s body relax as his weight shifts. He can also feel him pressing, nice and hard, against his stomach. He pivots his hips a little to line them up _just right,_ and Quentin pulls him in for another kiss. 

This is…oh… _very_ nice. They might never have done quite exactly this. Eliot can’t really say for sure; it’s definitely a variation on a theme, but this particular pressing slide of Quentin’s hard, soapy cock up against his own, and the surprisingly good leverage that Q has to move his hips against Eliot, that heel pressing into the back of his thigh… it’s certainly _memorable._ Eliot kisses Quentin deeply and thoroughly as the rocking press of their bodies in the hot steam takes on an undulating motion, and Quentin’s humming moans are loud enough to be heard over the pounding rain of the shower on the tile floor behind them. 

It feels… god. It feels really fucking good. The pressure, the slick, hot slide, sparks shooting up Eliot’s body as the head of Quentin’s dick rubs past his and back again… without a doubt they could both come just like this, and maybe that’s what they’ll do. Eliot has no trouble at all holding Quentin up, loves the feeling of his solid weight wrapped around him. He revels in the slide of his chest—god, he’s rubbing their nipples together, the man is going to kill him—the curve of his neck, his mouth… _his mouth…_

Quentin’s energy is growing wilder. His chest rumbles in a near-growl, and he pushes his tongue deep into Eliot’s mouth, then ducks his head to suck on his throat while Eliot lets his head fall back, grips Quentin’s hips and grinds up against him with a shout. 

“Oh god,” Quentin says, leaning back to look at Eliot, panting, “Fuck. El, you’re so hot.” 

Eliot, breathing hard, checks in: “Are you okay baby, against this wall? Want to move?” 

“God no, not yet. But could you? Um. Will you give me your fingers?” 

There is no world in which Eliot is ever going to say “no” when Quentin asks to be fingered. He doesn’t bother to disguise his grin. “Will you trust me to hold you up, without my hands?” 

“Yes.” Quentin’s reply is eager and immediate. 

“Okay, I’ve got you.” 

“I know.” 

Eliot lets go of Quentin’s hips, reluctantly, to grab the shower lube. Magic lube is marvelous, but silicone-based has definite advantages in the shower. He holds him up and against the wall telekinetically while he pours some on his fingers, then presses his clean hand to Quentin’s chest just to reassure him while leaning back barely enough to float the bottle and pour a warm, slick stream over their nested cocks. Quentin’s gives a little jump and he clears his throat and looks up at Eliot, eyes dark and lips slightly parted.

Eliot takes Quentin’s hips back into his hands and lets most of his weight settle back down against him. 

“Sorry for the interruption.”

“That’s okay,” Quentin rasps. _Oh,_ Eliot cannot wait to take him apart. He leans in to kiss him, nice and slow and warm, and tickles the fingers of his left hand along Quentin’s ass, brushing over his hole and down to his perineum, then back up again with more pressure, beginning to gently massage around his opening but also just rubbing the whole area, his hand large and flat against him, getting him slick and relaxed, feeling the shape of him. 

Q has stopped grinding against Eliot, for the moment, and that’s good because now they can both really _feel_ this: their chests rising and falling together, lips touching but mostly just sharing breath, dicks pressed together and hard and just _waiting,_ as Eliot gently circles Quentin’s asshole with the pad of his middle finger and then just. _Presses_ , gently, presses it inside. 

Quentin moans softly and wiggles a little against Eliot’s hand, and Eliot captures his lower lip between his teeth and lightly sucks on it as he circles his slick finger around and begins to push it in and back, down to his second knuckle. He’s tight and so, so warm, and Eliot _loves_ the way Q just… relaxes. So expertly. Opens up for him, lets him in, just wants his fingers-his tongue-his cock _inside_ …

It seems like almost no time at all before Quentin is breathing hard and rasping out, “More. El, please,” pushing forward for a kiss, sweet and sloppy, as Eliot fits another long finger carefully inside and begins to rub slow circles over his prostate. Quentin moans, long and low, and tightens his legs around Eliot’s hips. The sudden press against his dick is good, it’s good, god, it is… but. But what’s really doing it for Eliot is touching Quentin. It’s hearing him gasp and moan; the writhe and twitch of his body; his desperate kisses; those flashes of intense eye contact before he floats away in the experience of being held up and pressed there, close and safe and loved, and fucked on Eliot’s long fingers against their tile shower wall. 

“Do you want another one, baby?” Eliot asks, quiet as he can against Quentin’s ear a little while later. He knows, he knows Quentin likes a lot, can tell by the way he squirms against his fingers that he wants it. Quentin nods and lets his forehead drop to Eliot’s shoulder, then, and breathes in deep and then out, slow and controlled, as Eliot withdraws his fingers most of the way and then slowly twists them back in, his index finger joining his middle and ring fingers, feeling Quentin’s body twitch and stretch and relax around him. 

Finally, Eliot has his three longest fingers fully seated in his beautiful husband’s perfect ass, thumb and little finger splayed out to the sides, palm firm against his perineum and Quentin’s thighs solid around his hips. He holds them there, holds him up, feels his breath hot against his shoulder. 

“Holy… El,” Quentin breathes, “fuck.” 

“Q, you feel so fucking good.”

“I? I… _you… oh my god.”_

“You ready, sweetheart?”

Quentin nuzzles up Eliot’s neck, kisses the corner of his mouth. “Uh huh,” he murmurs, biting at Eliot’s lip then kissing him, messy and breathless, “yeah… yes.” 

Eliot settles his cheek against Quentin’s, where he’ll be right there if Q wants to be kissed, and closes his eyes. He can feel Quentin’s eyelashes against his cheekbone. They both breathe, the expectation heavier around them than the steam. Eliot begins to stroke.

He feathers his fingers over Quentin’s prostate at first, as he slides them part way out and then back in again, petting over his sensitive rim, massaging him through a couple of tiny little spasms as he feels Quentin’s body relax, the muscles open and give. Quentin writhes and pushes down against his hand, and Eliot twists his fingers a little, varying the rhythm, keeping it slow.

Quentin is moaning, a drawn-out _Ohhhh_ that is rolling between soft and deep. Eliot curves his fingers a little more and begins to really rub, right where Q needs it, and lets himself moan a little right along with him. It’s such an incredible pleasure, touching Quentin like this, bringing him off with his fingers, and the way that he’s holding him up is seriously adding to that feeling that Eliot loves, the feeling of taking care of him. It’s heady, the amount of power that Eliot has right now, but he just feels… so fucking tender. So in love. And god, so turned on. 

Beginning to use the muscles of his arm, Eliot rocks Quentin on his hand. His palm cradles and rubs Quentin’s perineum, where he’s hard and swollen at the base of his erection. Quentin responds by beginning to roll his hips gently against Eliot’s splayed hand, and his hard cock starts sliding lightly against Eliot’s. It’s not a lot of friction, but it’s soooo nice, and Eliot encourages the rolling motion with his arm, letting more of the weight of Quentin’s chest settle against the shower wall. 

Eliot leans in to kiss him. Quentin’s lips are slick and hot. The stubble on his upper lip is scratchy, and Eliot rolls his lip over it, feeling the slight burn. He runs his tongue along the points of his teeth. He gives him a particularly firm stroke with his fingers, and when Quentin gasps, Eliot takes his bottom lip between his teeth and gently pulls. Quentin groans, loud, and Eliot releases his lip and smiles against his mouth. 

“You wanna come for me like this, baby?” Eliot asks, low against his lips, “right here on my hand?” 

“God,” Quentin pants, “ _yes_. Eliot…” Eliot leans back to look at him. His lips are swollen and red, damp hair a little wild, flushed halfway down his chest, a purple mark on his neck… he’s a wreck— a gorgeous, gorgeous wreck. “Will you,” Quentin continues, “Will you still fuck me? After?” 

_God._ Okay. Yeah.

“I will. But. Not against this wall, okay? Not sure I could keep you up safely.” 

Quentin takes a second to process that, his eyes flash at Eliot and he _smirks._ “You gonna work on that? We could practice. Good… project.”

Eliot isn’t blushing at the thought that Q wants him to magically hold him up against a wall and rail him. That isn’t… isn’t flattering or anything. It’s… fuck, he isn’t grinning as he tries to focus on his fingers… it’s fine.

Quentin reaches a hand around the back of Eliot’s head and pulls him in and kisses him. Just… expertly, passionately kisses him, and okay. Okay, yeah, Eliot is on board. Quentin’s mouth is just, _god,_ he’s amazing, his lips are so strong and… soft and… his _tongue…_

Eliot feels the strong, hot curl of Quentin’s tongue around his and he rubs hard against his prostate, in and around and back, fucks him deep on his fingers, rocks him on his palm. Quentin grips him with his thighs and his hands in his hair behind his ears and holds on, forearms resting on his shoulders, rolling his hips and sliding against Eliot’s dick, leaking onto their stomachs. He breaks the kiss and gasps, lets his head tip back against the tile. Eliot’s got him. He’s got him.

“I’ve got you,” he tells him, rocking him, rocking him, feeling the hardness of him against his palm, his stomach, his cock, rubbing him deep inside. Quentin’s chest is rising and falling hard, chest hair dark and wet and his nipples sharp little points. His thighs start to shake as Eliot presses his long fingers into him, over and over, as he holds him up. 

Eliot feels Quentin’s muscles begin to tense involuntarily under his hand. He’s getting close. He flexes his arm, rolls his fingers inside him, circles and presses and rubs against his prostate, firmer and faster and _just right._

Quentin is gasping, babbling, “Oh my g… _El… fuck. I… ohhh.”_ His cock is so hard that it’s jumping against his stomach, and Eliot wishes to god that he could get his mouth around it, but he’s not going to interrupt him, not now. He presses his hips in, just a tiny bit, to give him a little more friction, and rocks him hard so his cock rubs up between them as he curls his fingers in and strokes him deep inside. Quentin’s thick ring of muscle clenches tight around Eliot’s fingers, trapping them in place, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn't stop, he doesn’t stop, he _speeds up_ , and then Quentin is shouting, nonsense and curses and Eliot's name, and Eliot is saying, “Q, come on baby, come for me,” and Quentin is shouting his name and he’s coming. He’s coming, and _coming;_ he’s painting Eliot’s chest in long white streams and curling over him and laughing, and drawing his head in to kiss his mouth, warm and shaky. 

Eliot breathes with Quentin and kisses him back, lets his fingers slowly still and just settle there inside him, a soft pressure just resting against that little knot of sensitive nerves and tissue as the muscles of his pelvis continue to spasm and Quentin catches his breath. He keeps… he’s still laughing. Quentin leans his forehead against Eliot’s and takes a deep breath.

“That. What. hoo….um. _Eliot.”_ He laughs and grabs Eliot’s face, and kisses him again. 

.o.o.O.o.o.

Eliot wants to hold him. “Sweetheart, I’m gonna… okay. Hold on.” He carefully, carefully twists his fingers and slowly slides them from Quentin’s still-shaking body, petting tenderly over his rim as he does, and settles his hand back around Quentin’s hip. 

“Do you want me to put you down?” He considers. “Do you think you can stand?”

“I um. Yes? Put me down, but um, maybe? I don’t know.” 

Eliot nuzzles Quentin’s neck and kisses him beneath his ear, pushes his nose up into his hair and breathes him in. “Okay,” he says, and he helps Quentin loosen his thighs from around his hips and gently lowers him until his feet are on the shower floor. Immediately, Eliot wraps an arm around Quentin’s waist to hold him steady, and another over his shoulders, just to hold him, and presses Quentin’s head to his neck. Quentin just… melts into his embrace.

“Baby here,” Eliot says, soft against Quentin’s ear, “let’s do this.” He begins to shuffle them back and over, under the shower spray, turns the water back up to cover them both, warms it up a little for Quentin’s sake.

“You turned the water down,” Quentin says, against his chest. He sounds surprised. 

“Yeah, a while ago, when we left it here.” He’d just done it with his mind, automatic. Eliot rubs up and down Quentin’s back, wanting to feel him. The hot water feels wonderful on his back, rolling down his arms and onto Q. He spins them to put Quentin more fully in the spray.

“I was worried we were wasting it,” Quentin says. “This isn’t Caladan.”

“Oh my god, Q.” Eliot starts to laugh. He holds him against his chest. Quentin is ridiculous. Eliot is going to keep him forever. “That’s the… um… from the one with Kyle Maclachlan?”

“Wow,” Quentin says, “I can’t believe you remembered that.” Neither can Eliot, honestly. “Yeah. Caladan is the, um, the watery planet. Where Muad’dib was a kid. It’s kind of just, like, a literary foil for Arrakis. You don’t… do you want to hear more about it? There’s a lot more detail in the book.” Eliot is shaking his head, holding Q tight under the water and trying to breathe through his suppressed laughter. “Okay,” Quentin continues, “well. Did you know that Sting was supposed to be fully nude in that shower scene? The studio ruined it.” 

“I had no idea.” Eliot looks down at Quentin. He looks like he’s about to expound upon that, and while Eliot would ordinarily be very interested in discussing the merits of a naked Sting on film, there’s something that he’s been wanting to do for a _while_. He steps back slightly and looks down at Quentin, interrupting him mid-nerdy fanboy thought, apparently, and brings his hand up to cradle the back of his neck. A light goes on in Quentin’s eyes, and his lips just… drop, slightly open, and his head tilts gently under Eliot’s palm, and he goes up on his toes, and Eliot leans down and kisses him.

.o.o.O.o.o.

Eliot knows, they both know, this is where his hand belongs. He tilts Quentin’s head slightly to deepen the kiss, and Quentin just _goes,_ pliant and eager, his kisses warm and languid and knowing. This is theirs, and it’s never going to get old. 

“I love you,” Quentin breathes.

“I love you,” Eliot echoes, against his lips, and Quentin threads his hand into Eliot’s curls and pulls him into a deep, passionate kiss.

Finally, Quentin pulls back, just enough to speak. “I’m gonna,” he says, a little breathless, and then the rest of that statement never arrives as Quentin slides his lips down Eliot’s body and then he’s up on his knees, hot spray of the shower arcing over him, and taking Eliot’s semi-hard cock deep into his mouth.

Eliot startles at the shock of it, in the best possible way. _Fuck._ Quentin’s mouth is so warm and wet around him, and he’s sucking and… licking… rolling him around, like his tongue is just _everywhere._ He can feel himself quickly returning to full hardness, filling up Quentin’s mouth. 

“Ohhh… Q…” Eliot looks down at him. Quentin is very enthusiastically sucking his cock, the wide bow of his lips somehow smiling while stretched around him—Eliot can see the dimples. 

The water is aimed at Eliot’s shoulder and the side of his neck. He looks down at himself and _fuck,_ Quentin’s come is streaming down his chest where the water is beading into rivulets and washing it along. 

“Baby,” he murmurs to Quentin, and thumbs along his jaw, “look.” 

Quentin opens his eyes and looks up at Eliot, his dark lashes heavy and wet. God, he’s just a dream. Eliot smiles at him and takes his right hand off Quentin’s shoulder, rubs two fingertips through the come in his chest hair, and places them on his own tongue. He moans at the sharp, intimate taste, and Quentin moans even louder at the sight, and Eliot can feel the deep vibration of Quentin’s voice in his dick. 

Quentin gets a sharp, hot look in his eyes and his hand leaves Eliot’s hip and presses up his front, over his stomach and up into his chest hair, where Quentin smears his sturdy fingers in his own come and then rubs them over Eliot’s nipple. Eliot’s dick twitches, hard, in Quentin’s mouth, and he bites his own lip. 

He’s grinning, he knows it. He settles his licked-clean fingertips gently in Quentin’s hair behind his ear as Q begins to slide his lips, his mouth, up and down his shaft. 

It feels, _god,_ it feels like heaven, like warm white heat and sparks every time the head of his cock presses back over the roof of Quentin’s mouth. Eliot reaches up and grabs the shower fixture to steady himself, the metal hot against his palm and fingers. Quentin has a hand around the Eliot’s base, now, and is stroking him with a slow, firm grip while he sucks. The combination, the rhythm, is just… perfect, and Eliot can tell, he’s not there yet, but if Quentin keeps doing this for much longer he’s going to come.

“Sweetheart,” he pants. He’d tug on Q’s hair, but he knows from experience that would probably just spur him on. “Q, do you want me to come like this? If you still want me to fuck you in here…”

Quentin groans around his dick in just… the most erotic way, really, and pulls off. His mouth is red and swollen and he looks delicious. 

“I just,” he begins, a little bit of a bratty complaint to his voice, “you know me. I want everything.”

Eliot laughs, takes a deep breath and cradles his head. “I’m sorry I have a refractory period, baby.”

“S’okay,” Quentin stands up and puts his arms up around Eliot’s neck, presses his stomach up against his erection. “I do still want it, though.” 

Eliot pulls Quentin’s head in against his neck and kisses his hair, breathing him in as his body settles down slightly. “Okay,” he says, “I’m all yours.” 

Quentin tightens his arms around Eliot’s neck and goes up on his toes for a kiss and what can Eliot do? He kisses him _very_ deeply and _very_ thoroughly and reaches, mentally, for the lube.

.o.o.O.o.o.

Eliot is slightly over six inches taller than Quentin. He can’t top him while standing up in the shower, not before they’ve done all of that “practicing” that Q was talking about. But there’s one position they both like that will definitely work. With a grin, Eliot turns Quentin around, runs his hands down his chest and abs _—_ just because _—_ and moves them until they’re across from the shower bench. Eliot backs up and sinks down to his knees and sits back on his legs. 

“Come on sweetheart.” Eliot rubs his hands up and down Quentin’s thighs “Are you still ready for me? Let me feel you.”

Quentin gets on his hands and knees, legs spread, and steadies himself with one hand on the edge of the bench while Eliot pours a stream of lube into his hand and slicks himself. He puts his other hand on Quentin’s lower back, then reaches up between his legs, cups his soft cock and his lightly furred balls, gives them a little tug and then draws his hand back along his perineum. Quentin is still very soft and open, and Eliot sinks his thumb deep into his ass and massages him from both sides. 

Quentin… maybe stops breathing? “Q?” Eliot asks, stilling his hand, afraid it’s too much, but then Quentin punches out the lowest, most guttural groan of pleasure and just, like, _grinds_ his ass back on Eliot’s hand. He arches his back, his shoulder blades standing upward against the muscles of his shoulders and spine. It’s. _Fuck._ He is so sexy.

“Oh my _god,_ Eliot,” Quentin says, his voice ragged and wrecked, “you. Your _hand.”_ Eliot starts moving against him again, rubbing his fingertips over his scrotum with his palm kneading his perineum and his thumb gently circling his prostate inside. He loves being able to feel this much of him. “Okay,” Quentin gasps, finally, “come on El. Get inside me.” A moment passes. “With _your dick_ , I mean.”

Well, all right. Eliot did promise. 

He slides his hand back and out, drawing his fingers up along the seam of Quentin’s ass just to tickle him and make him squirm, then moves forward to line himself up, his broad palm still splayed across Quentin’s lower back and the swollen head of his cock resting against Quentin’s opening. 

Eliot carefully takes hold of himself and pushes his foreskin all the way down, beneath his glans, just for this part. “Okay,” he breathes, and he slowly, carefully presses inside. Those first… couple inches, where Quentin is snug and slick and his muscles squeeze around the head of Eliot’s cock… god. He pauses there, for a couple of breaths, as they both feel it. He rubs his hand over Quentin’s back, over his ass. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Quentin croaks, _“please."_

Eliot reaches his arm around Quentin, anchoring his hips, and gently pushes, a little bit at a time, the rest of the way inside. He holds him against himself when they’re flush, feeling his body squeeze and twitch around the base of his cock, and the softer and more giving warmth further inside. Quentin feels amazing. He always does. He squirms a little and presses back against Eliot, impatient. 

Eliot mentally adjusts the shower so the hot spray is just hitting their legs and the steam is again rising around them, and he begins to move, giving Quentin long, slow, smooth thrusts, out and then in. He runs his hand up the flexing muscles of Quentin’s damp back, stretched out in front of him, and holds his hip as they build up a rhythm, as Quentin rocks back onto him and begins to punch out little moans with each thrust.

Quentin’s back tenses and his hips arch up a little toward Eliot; he lifts his head to try to flip his hair back, and when that doesn’t work he supports himself on one hand and lifts a muscular, hairy forearm and broad, masculine hand and very… softly… brushes the hair from from his eyes, and… jesus _fucking_ christ. It feels fantastic, of course it does, fucking into him, steady and perfect—it’s exactly, entirely wonderful—but the way he _looks…_ he looks like a… like a fucking sex dream, like Eliot’s subconscious couldn’t possibly imagine anything better. 

“El?” asks Quentin, twisting around to look at him, and Eliot realizes that he’s paused, a little, while his reality rearranged. It’s far from the first time this has happened during sex with Quentin, honestly. He swallows and tries to gather himself.

“Sorry Q,” he says, “you’re just. You’re beautiful. It’s distracting.” He’s summarizing. 

Quentin looks at him softly, like he understands there’s more to it, maybe, or maybe he just loves him. 

“Pull me up?” Quentin asks, and yeah. It’s time.

Eliot leans over Quentin’s back and tightens his arm around his hips. He reaches his other hand up to his shoulder and pulls him back and up, onto his lap. Quentin’s legs end up splayed out over Eliot’s, wrapped around the outsides of his thighs, and they lean back a little, chests flush, as Eliot’s arm settles around the breadth of Quentin’s chest. He can feel him relaxing, settling into his lap, and he just holds him tight, for a moment, before they start to move. 

They don’t have the leverage for long, smooth strokes, but that’s okay. Eliot is totally down for the slow build of stimulation, for making this last. He presses the side of his face into Quentin’s wet hair, behind his ear, and lets out a low, satisfied sound as he begins to move again, rocking his hips in small circles, giving him about an inch at a time, out and in, always moving. Quentin moves with him, at first, the contours of his body fitting perfectly to Eliot’s. They roll their hips together, Quentin’s back pressed against Eliot’s chest, and Eliot holds onto him tight as pleasure builds low in his groin. He can feel it way down below the base of his cock, past where he can grind slowly into Quentin’s body, down to the very root, hot and practically thrumming. 

“El, fuck,” Quentin groans, changing to a motion that pulls him further up and pushes him back down, and the little bit of extra force at the end of each stroke, Quentin’s own body weight shoving him down, slick and hot on Eliot’s dick… well. It’s enough to make Eliot gasp and rock his hips harder, bite his lips and chase it a little bit. 

Quentin likes it, he knows. He likes the friction and motion, stretching his rim, at the base where Eliot’s cock is the thickest. He likes the feeling of being filled up, the sensation of having Eliot inside him, deep. He really, really likes to ride. 

“You feel so good,” Eliot tells him, turning his head to kiss his ear, “Baby. You’re so good.” 

Quentin hums and grinds himself back against Eliot, then leans forward, and Eliot loosens his grip around his chest. Feet braced on the shower floor and using the muscles of his legs, Quentin rises up until only the head of Eliot’s cock is still inside him, then lets himself fall. The air punches out of Eliot’s lungs. That felt… so fucking good. Quentin lifts himself and falls, again and again, and it’s marvelous. Eliot puts his hands on the sides of Quentin’s ribs as Q rides him, watches the flexing lines of his back and his ass, feels the squeeze of his thighs. He pushes his hips up to meet him, to give him as much as he can.

When Quentin is breathing hard, his thighs beginning to shake, Eliot slowly stills him with his hands on his shoulders. 

“Rest, baby, I’ve got you,” he says. He reaches an arm around Quentin’s chest and pulls him back against him, his back resting solid on Eliot’s chest. Quentin takes a couple of steadying breaths and lets his head drop back onto Eliot’s shoulder as Eliot spreads his thighs a bit, to give himself more room to move. He holds Quentin steady and rocks his hips back and then up, then adjusts their angle just slightly to slide his cock, hard and thick, over his prostate as he pushes into him. 

“Oh god, yeah,” Quentin moans, soft and low.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah babe, right there.”

Eliot holds Quentin solidly against him and _fucks him_ _,_ pushes, slick, up into him over and over, as steady and perfect as he can. He drops his head and looks down over his body. Quentin’s cock is hard again, very hard, standing up between his legs and bobbing slightly against his stomach. His chest hair and pubic hair and the trail down his lower belly are wet and dark. His pecs are tight, pebbled nipples hard against them. God, he’s a sight. Eliot feels Quentin’s shoulder blades firm against his chest. He rubs the side of his thumb over and around his nipple, where he’s holding him tight, and Quentin moans, a broken, stuttering sound, sexy, right below Eliot’s ear. 

The moan sends a shiver through Eliot that goes right to his cock. He speeds up his thrusts, feeling the tight heat of Quentin’s body, pleasure beginning to pool, sharp and bright, between his legs. 

“Oh my god, fuck, Eliot, kiss me,” Quentin gasps, “fuck, I’m… I’m getting close.” Eliot feels Q reach up into his hair, and he cranes his head around as Quentin twists to meet him and pulls him into a kiss. It’s wet, and messy, and full of hot breath. Their teeth touch, and their tongues twist together, and their lips slide and press and seek each other. It’s desperate. It’s _intimate._ Eliot will give Quentin _anything._ He loves him with every atom of his being.

Quentin’s head falls back and he moans, deep and loud, his eyes still shut. Eliot thumbs his nipple, thrusts up into him, takes his other hand off of Quentin’s hip and brings it up to wrap around his cock. Quentin jerks up into his fist and Eliot squeezes slightly, thumbs his slit and slicks his shaft with precome, begins to stroke him, long and firm, in time with his thrusts. 

Eliot can feel Quentin's heart pounding, beneath his splayed fingers. Q has his arms stretched up above his head, hands tight in Eliot’s hair. He's rocking back onto Eliot’s cock and forward into his hand, and he’s shaking, his breath coming in gasps. Eliot thrusts up into him, harder and faster, and strokes him as he does. Eliot can feel himself approaching the edge, his muscles tightening and pleasure spreading, intense and urgent, from the head of his cock clear down into his thighs. 

“Come on, baby,” he whispers in Q’s ear, and strokes him fast as Quentin’s body tenses and stretches out over him. His cock swells in his hand, slick and hard and hot, and his rim clenches tight around Eliot, and he’s shaking against him, breath caught in his chest… and Quentin _comes._ His come arcs up above them and falls down onto his stomach and Eliot’s hand as Eliot squeezes and strokes him through it. Eliot thrusts up, hard and sharp, into the clenching, throbbing heat of Quentin’s ass, and it only takes a few thrusts before he’s following Quentin over the edge, his balls pulled tight to his body and bright, hot pleasure rocking through him in waves. He has to let go of Quentin’s cock to throw his hand back and support them against the tile shower floor as his muscles clench tight and his body lets go, and he comes deep inside Quentin, his name on his lips, his vision going white. One of Quentin’s hands grasps Eliot’s, over his chest, and holds on tight, as the aftershocks go on for a long, long time.

.o.o.O.o.o.

When Eliot’s vision starts to clear he dips his head to kiss Quentin’s shoulder. Q's weight, solid on top of him, is very grounding and Eliot’s grateful for it. His fingers and toes are tingling and his breath is still unsteady.

“Wow, Q.” He laughs, a soft thing, and leans to kiss his neck.

“Yeah.” Quentin sounds like he’s floating. Eliot can relate. 

There’s no very urgent reason to move, so they take their time. Eliot is happy to hold Quentin on his lap, against his chest, kissing him and breathing in the scent of his hair. Quentin’s body relaxes and they gently pull apart, then Eliot wraps both arms around him and leans forward, resting his cheek against the back of Quentin’s head. 

“Q,” Eliot says, “if I was holding you magically against a wall and came like _that,_ I would definitely drop you.”

Quentin reaches back and encircles Eliot’s waist with his arms.

“I’ll put some pillows down,” he says—Eliot can hear the smile in his voice,—“when we practice.”

Eliot grins into his hair. He’s wonderful. And ridiculous.

“Come on,” Eliot rubs the tops of Quentin’s thighs and nudges him up, “we need a shower.”

“And, um, soup,” Quentin adds as he unfolds himself and holds out his hands to help Eliot up.

Eliot stands up and reaches for Quentin, wraps him in his arms and kisses him, nice and slow. “Yeah,” he agrees, between kisses, “that too.” 

**Author's Note:**

> _Quentin has a lot of opinions on the textual homophobia of the works of Frank Herbert. Eliot is sure he's right._
> 
> Many thanks to Adjovi for holding my hand while I wrote this overwhelmingly gratuitous, extremely smutty thing. You're the best.
> 
> Thanks also to the organizers of the Lock-down Fest for the excellent motivation.
> 
> If anyone wants to drop me a comment or a note to help me not die of nervous embarrassment, I promise I'll appreciate it.


End file.
